


Oli’s Oc Development OneShots

by DragonMum



Category: DBH - Fandom, detroit become human
Genre: Character Development, F/M, M/M, Multi, OCs - Freeform, headcannon heavy, oneshots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 16:47:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16433174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonMum/pseuds/DragonMum
Summary: This is gonna be a big mix of one shots featuring all of my Detroit Become Human Oc’s and heavily head-cannoned characters (including aus and whatnot)





	Oli’s Oc Development OneShots

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is the beginning of my main dbh character and how he got to Detroit.

January 12, 2023

A newer model. Fresh off the assembly line is packaged and shipped off to Spain.

An HR400. That’s what he is. A sex robot meant for nothing more than an hour of play then to be tossed aside. Which is precisely what happened.

Rented. Used. Thrown away. Rinse and repeat. Day in and day out. Late nights spent on platforms in heels, his hands gripping the pole in the center. He performs tricks, his version of the model just a bit lighter than the average traci so he could perform these things more effectively and smoothly. His nicely sculpted and built body drawing attention to the sex club.

Years. He spent years. And years. And years. And years doing these things. Nothing to gain. He followed his coding perfectly.

He counted the days, the months. Watched his internal clock tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. Seconds become minutes become days become weeks become months become years..

On a relatively normal night of Eden Club work, he was performing his tricks, doing his dance. He felt a rough hand grip his arm, did he flinch? Ues. Did it sting? Yeah. His grip was like a vice, tight, unforgiving. He gave faint mumbles of a language the android didn’t understand. Suddenly he wasn’t pulled off the stage, he rolled his ankle due to the awkward position of his landing. This caused his knee to buckle like a deer freshly learning to walk. Suddenly he was pulled harder and forced up onto his feet, he gave a soft gasp at the forceful tug. This android, given the name Thiago, tried to keep up with the man though he struggled to keep his balance. Thiago was pulled so hard by his elbow, he feared it would be pulled right out of his socket. The man muttered something the android still could not comprehend.

“¿no entiendo lo que dice..?” The android tried to clarify. But the man only growled in response and shoved him into the wall. (I don’t understand what you’re saying..?)

The android’s deep brown eyes shot in open at the collision of his back to the wall. He gave a small grunt and suddenly this man was pressing tensely up against him. His hands gripping tense and tight at Thiago’s hips. He felt as if those hands would swallow him. They pulled at his synthetic skin, hungry, thirsting to do something, /anything/ to him. He leaned his head back and gripped at his shoulders. Okay, so this client was a bit too excited. He could adapt. His eyes lightly closed in whatever pleasure he could derive from the rough hands that felt as if they’d rip his synthetic skin away. Like they’d bruise and beat it until it all felt just raw and painful.

Chills scrawled down his spine when he felt one of those hands drift over his thirium pump. He didn’t mind people grazing it, it was almost.. thrilling to him. But when he felt a sudden pressure that brought all thought processes to a stop. His deep, mahogany brown eyes shot open and he looked down. Blue gushed down his chest and covered the hands of the man who’d just rented him. The emergency timer began in his view and gripped at the hole in his chest, “Ay...!” He weakly cried out at him. All he could do was gape at the chuckling man before him. He rolled the regulator over his hands. Thiago reached for it, but the man stepped away, this left the android to stumbled forward to a table in the room. “¡Necesito eso! ¡Por favor!” He wheezed out, feeling his knees get weak. (I need that! Please!)

His shaky blurry gaze tried to focus on the face of the man but failed. His mouth was dry, he couldn’t think of words, feeling his processes slowly begin to fail. He gripped at whatever he could for stability but his knees buckled and he fell to the ground. This earned a cackle from his tomentor, who walked closer to the mock-human. He whispered something about the thrill of death and near death. Thiago could hardly focus on what was being said as he watched his thirium pump sit in his hand. He slowly pulled one of his heels off and waited for him to get closer..closer..closer../!: then

W A M

Thiago had brought the bottom of the stiletto on his head. He grabbed the pump and shoved it back into its place. He shakily breathed; tears rolled down his face out of the fear that courses through his veins. He slowly sat up and looked at the man beside him, he gasped and crawled away as far as he could while staying in the room. He let out a shriek, a scream of pure and unadulterated horror at what he’d done.

He hadn’t hit him once. Hadn’t even knocked him unconscious. He’d..He’d beaten this man to death.. blood gushed from the hole in his head, the heel was dug into his eyes. He hyperventilated and couldn’t form words, all he could do was scream. He screamed, screamed, and screamed. He screamed until his voice box blew out and he could no longer even hoarsely whispered.

No matter who had tried to console him, to calm him, all he did was scream. When police arrived, this clearly meant he couldn’t defend himself and would be sentenced to destruction either way. He fought, he kicked, he tried to scream as they shut him down. His body finally fell limp.

Due to whatever shred of luck he had left, the own begged the officers to merely send him for repairs instead of compektely destroying him. And to whatever ounce of charm she had, it worked. So he was packaged and returned to America. Detroit, to be exact.

He was taken up by a rookie group of mechanics to be fixed, a side project. It took a few years to return him to even mostly working orders, though there were errors with his model. His voice box would be finicky, some permanent damage left in the form of scratches and bruises on his hips, neck, shiudkers, wrists, ankles, etc., some of his specific processors couldn’t be repaired. When he was finally switched back on, he immediately panicked. He was only calm after the constant greats of being shot down and scrapped. Thanks to merely one engineer, he managed to stay as a continual project. He was trapped inside that building for years on end.

One morning, he was asked to say something in English. All he could do was stare in confusion when they spoke. He couldn’t understand what they were saying. No matter how much he stared and tried to tell them via the classics “No..¡No habla inglés!” They refused to believe him. As always, he was saved by that one engineer. A beautiful brunette with red-dyed tips to her mid-back length, curly hair. Her interracial skin tone seeming like the perfect mix, her eyes a bright green with blue accents. She made some excuse for them to continue experiments and studies on him so he could stay at least within the building. She worked with him in secret to help him learn English.

Then, there came a day where most of the team decided to give up. They knew they wouldn’t get any farther than they had, and despite being so frustrated with him and his progress, somehow couldn’t manage to get rid of something they’d spent years on and decided to deem him good enough that he could function. With his little English and mostly-functional-body, he was sent to Detroit’s Eden Club to work. Under the guise that he was their newest model and he’d be just fine for the customers.

Gifted with the new name, Terryn, he was sent off and finally out of the hands of the group engineers.

He had to fake non-deviancy and suppress any episodes of trauma from that main in Spain. Pain racked his body daily from the weary process of being “fixed.” He hardly had to feign nondeviancy, it took him years to recognize the oddities within himself that accompanied deviancy. He’d assumed it was all faulty coding from those engineers. Even when he did recognize his own deviancy, he feigned ignorance to it. He’d seen and heard what happened to deviants and didn’t want that for himself. 

Call it self-preservation.


End file.
